Knockin' On Heaven's Door

I stepped off the subway and found myself looking up at the front of Trinity Church, located at the intersection of Wall Street and Broadway. The church and its grounds are open to whoever chooses to enter, but I found that the iron fence that surrounds the church and cemetery was a psychological as well as a physical barrier to my entrance.

I therefore remained just outside the gates; on my walk around the block I stuck close enough to brush the fence with my shoulders while I looked up at the massive “English Gothic Revival” church. Its tall spires and central tower drew my eyes up, towards the heavens, as I am sure was intended in its design.

The church is flanked on both sides by the cemetery, with its aged gravestones in hues of gray, green and brown. I was surprised to see three people clustered around a gravestone there, within the iron gates, dressed all in black. Rather than admire the stained glass windows or tall spires of the church, their heads were bowed in mourning, their backs turned to me as I gazed in from the other side of the fence. Their conversation was muted and indistinguishable. The blonde, curly hair of the sole woman in the group provided the only bright spot among their dark huddled mass.

In a cemetery so old, with names like Alexander Hamilton and Robert Fulton on its tombstones, the presence of these mourners was unusual, and I was curious which of the weather-worn tombstones held their attention. But abruptly the conversation ended and I was left on my side of the fence while they walked away.